Booze And The Flu
by BulletsCoffeeFaith
Summary: Dean would rather be at that bar across the street than here, taking care of his delusional, fevered brother. Because really, seeing Sam sick is never any fun. Set early season one. sick!Sammy and caring!Dean. Rated for slight language. ONESHOT.


**A/N: Howdy, ya'll!**

**I'm a new Supernatural fan (thought that's probably quite obvious.) I just finished the first season last night, but I can honestly say this is already one of my favorite shows, right up there next to Falling Skies. Sam and Dean are so perfect – and, let's be honest, Sam is schoolboy-adorable and Dean is movie-star-sexy. **

**But seriously, I love brotherly interaction. I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort of any sort. My muse wouldn't take no for an answer to a particularly hyper little plot bunny for some sick!Sammy. **

**I'm currently working on a multi-chapter fic for Supernatural, actually – the typical angsty!emotionallybroken!Sam and protectiveolderbrother!Dean. It's called "Of Knives Cutting And Teardrops Falling." It should be up sometime in the next couple of days, so please keep an eye out if you're interested. **

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural or the Winchesters, though I really wish I did. Dean and Sam would be like life-sized Ken dolls. I'd be, like, moving them all around my room and acting out my fanfiction stories instead of writing them...**

**(_cough_)**

**...let's get to the story, shall we?**

**Booze And The Flu**

Dean knows it's not fair to be mad at Sam.

The poor kid didn't _ask_ to catch a nasty case of the flu – and after watching him hurl, Dean was sure it wasn't fun in the slightest – and he can't exactly wish illness away. Sam was probably just as unhappy with life's latest petty hurdle as he was.

Dean just really, _really_ wanted to go to the bar.

It sucked, sitting beside his brother's bed and watching the fevered boy sleep when he could have been across the street, with booze and hot chicks galore. He would rather see a sexy brunette's winning smile as she took a seat on his lap than see Sam roll around in his bed, wincing and fidgeting relentlessly. He would rather hear the girl whispering words that will remain unsaid into his ear than hear his brother whimper in pain and cry out for Dean in his delusional consciousness every time he woke.

Because really, it's no fun seeing his brother like this. He would rather tease the kid about girls, about lightening up and hooking up, than take his temperature every ten minutes and assure him everything was alright every time he started screaming or crying. He would rather give the kid a light punch on the shoulder for talking back than smooth back his chestnut hair every time he said his brother's name, sick eyes searching the room for a threat that wasn't there.

Dean would rather see Sam laugh than see him cry. He'd trade this night for a night at the bar any day.

"Deeeaaannn..."

The soft cry, rising from the bed beside Dean, pulls him away from his thoughts with utmost urgency. Sam is awake again. He's frantic, fingers scrambling for a gun or a weapon of some sort, trying to sit up to fight whatever he thinks he's seeing.

And Dean sighs, because he really, _really_ hates seeing his brother like this.

But he knows exactly what to do. He still remembers, all these years later. He's taken care of a sick Sammy enough times over the last twenty years to remember.

His left hand is on the kid's chest, gently pushing him back onto the bed (which isn't too hard, considering how tired and unwell he is.) His right hand is on Sam's forehead, calming him and at the same time checking to see if this damned fever has began to climb again. He's leaning over into his brother's line of sight, keeping his expression calm and relaxed, trying to show him rather than tell him that everything is okay. And it works – somewhat. Sam stares at his brother for a moment, uncertain as to whether or not he should believe him. Much to Dean's relief, the younger man decides that everything is fine, that his family is not in danger.

"Easy, Sammy," he soothes as Sam screws his eyes shut against the pounding headache and sea of nausea. A low moan of pain causes Dean to bite down on his bottom lip. He doesn't know if it's worth it, leaving the kid alone long enough to run to a pharmacy. He wants Sam to be able to sleep in peace, to sleep without pain and nightmares, he does. But God only knows what could happen to his brother if he's left alone in such a state.

No. God isn't the only one who knows. Dean knows, too. Because he left Sammy alone once when he shouldn't have, and look how well that turned out.

No, he decides as Sam cries out again, scrabbling for the hem of Dean's shirt with one hand and grasping Dean's wrist with the other. No, he can't leave. He doesn't want to leave, because, although he'd never admit it, he worries about Sam. He's scared of what could happen – what most definitely _would_ happen – if the sick boy woke up to see that his brother was not there, that he had nobody to cry out to and nobody he could beg to take the pain away.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy, alright?" He's smoothing back Sam's hair now. His eyes watch the kid's youthful, schoolboy-ish face as he nods, seeming to relax, and falls immediately into much-needed rest. "I'm here, kiddo. You'll be fine. Just sleep."

Although he doesn't like it, Dean knows Sam is just going to have to ride this bug out. There's no way for him to get any medication. He can't leave his brother alone when he's vulnerable – not again. He can't and he won't.

He watches as a small smile forms on his brother's lips, and he allows himself to relax a little, too. He can't be having nightmares if he's smiling, right?

Dean studies the boy's face, and sighs loudly, dragging a hand through his own messy hair. Sam could easily pass as an older teenager if he needed to for a hunt, the man realizes. Some teens are that tall, right? It isn't impossible. Sammy can't be the only Sasquatch in the world.

"Dean."

It isn't pained this time, and Dean sighs, relieved. It's calm and peaceful, a simple statement, letting his brother know that he's aware of his presence. He smooths a warm hand over Sam's burning forehead, listening to the sound of deep breathing that fills the room. It's calming. Though they still don't know where their father is, he still has his Sammy. The Sammy he so desperately needs and, God, he loves this kid so damn much – not that he'd ever say that out loud. It would be a violation of the much-appreciated No Chick-Flick Moments rule.

But Dean would still rather be at a bar.

He hates it when Sam isn't okay. Teasing his brother, dumping itching powder into his boxers and taking set-up blackmail pictures, is much more fun than worrying and fretting over his state of health, and whether or not he will require a real doctor. Beer is a lot better. Hot girls are better than hot, fevered foreheads.

"Maybe tomorrow night, Sammy...I'll show you the proper way to pick up chicks, eh?"

With a small smile, Dean pulls the kid's blankets up to his chin and lies down in his own bed, watching Sam for any signs of needing his brother again.

Bars are better than the flu, but Sammy needs him. And as long as Sammy needs him, Dean plans on being there, no matter the cost.


End file.
